I Strove To Reach her
by Second Star On The Left
Summary: She tells him to call her Dara, shy Eddara, and she dances with the reluctance of a girl with a prettier sister, and then she refuses to kiss him. Asric thinks he might be in love just for that, because he cannot remember the last time a woman said no to him after he actively set out to charm her. Ned/Ashara, genderbent
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Born of a prompt on tumblr. Girl!Ned and Boy!Ashara. Everyone else is as they are in canon. Enjoy.

* * *

He is the heir to Starfall, with Arthur in the Kingsguard, and Asric is certain that he is as handsome as the prince or any of the other men about court. He has Arthur's look, even if his hair is a dark as Arthur's is fair, both of them finer boned than Allem, more like Father than Mother, and he is confident enough in his charm to be lazy of his looks.

The ladies certainly seem to agree that he is right to be confident, as one by one he charms all of them save sweet Princess Elia into his bed (she strays from Rhaegar's for only one man, and Asric admires his brother for that almost as much as he admires Elia for braving Aerys' wrath should he discover that she is being unfaithful to Rhaegar).

Court is _fun, _though, almost as fun as Sunspear when Oberyn is not adventuring. Asric enjoys the pageantry, enjoys fighting with the finest swords in the realm - he ignores Aerys' smouldering gaze, ignores the whispers that a second Dayne would be a fine jewel indeed for the Kingsguard should another brother fall - and enjoys the laugh of it all, of being young and handsome and charming in a place where such things are valued.

Arthur warns him to be careful, but Arthur was careful with Elia and all that earned him was a white cloak and the bitterness of broken vows.

* * *

Harrenhall is a mess, and Asric says as much to Arthur as they ride through the gates. His brother shushes him with a laugh, and Prince Rhaegar asks why he thinks so.

Asric says nothing, merely glances up to the melted towers, the scorched stone, and Rhaegar sighs in that way of his and waxes lyrical about the beauty in ruined things.

Asric is careful not to catch Arthur's eye then, because fond though they both are of the prince it is difficult enough not to laugh when he becomes melancholic without having to keep each other from laughing as well as themselves.

Oberyn greets him with outstretched arms and the promise of a cache of real wine and realer women, and they disappear into the warren of tents laughing and japing as they have since they were children at the Water Gardens.

* * *

Eddara Stark is not the most beautiful woman in Westeros - her younger sister is already lauded as more beautiful, is more charming and outgoing, like their older brother. Eddara is tall, mayhaps too tall, and broad with it, but there is something strong about her that Asric likes. He has never liked the waifish little ladies who are so common in King's Landing - in Oberyn's words, he likes something to hold onto - and so he doesn't think her being tall and broad is a fault. She's graceful with it, too, and Oberyn has all manner of complimentary things to say about her teats (Asric is more interested in her dark eyes, although he won't say that aloud).

Asric likes Brandon Stark, Eddara's brother, too. He is good company, always ready with a jape and a laugh, and he can hold his drink better than most. It is because of Brandon that Asric somehow finds himself dancing with shy Eddara, because Brandon feels sorry for his sister sitting alone with the little crannogman.

She tells him to call her Dara, shy Eddara, and she dances with the reluctance of a girl with a prettier sister, and then she refuses to kiss him.

Asric thinks he might be in love just for that, because he cannot remember the last time a woman said no to him after he actively set out to charm her.

* * *

He sees her often after that, always with her brothers and sister and Robert Baratheon, who Asric does _not _like because he is betrothed to Lyanna Stark and dishonours her by bedding anyone who'll have him (Asric beds three women during their time at Harrenhall from sheer frustration, dismissing Arthur's teasing that all have dark hair and eyes and pale skin, but he is not promised to anyone and would never dishonour a woman if he were) even though she is _right there._

He disapproves of how close Dara seems to be to Robert, even though he knows that they fostered together at the Eyrie with Jon Arryn and it is natural. That does not stop him from wishing that he could separate her from the Storm Lord and his over-eager libido.

He speaks with her at every opportunity, though, makes sure that it is clear that he is interested to keep any other parties away. She seems torn between annoyance and amusement, but she still refuses to give him so much as a kiss and it's driving him mad.

* * *

Oberyn and Arthur find the whole thing hilarious, the way he's so obviously smitten that even Elia takes the time to tease him, that even Rhaegar seems to have noticed - Asric is just glad that Jaime bloody Lannister, the arrogant little bastard that Arthur is so fond of, isn't there. Jaime would make finer sport of it than any of them.

But it is not funny - he has never been one to linger over a woman, but he can't seem to look past Dara when she's in the room. He doesn't want to dance with any other women, and by the time he's had three proper conversations with her he cannot imagine bedding anyone else because he's certain no other woman could make him laugh as she does.

He feels a fool, because she hardly seems to notice that he exists unless he puts himself directly in her path, but he can't quite help himself.

* * *

He sees her on the last night before everything goes to hell, before Lyanna and Rhaegar disappear, and he begs her for her hand.

He, Asric Dayne, one of the best swords in the realm, one of the most eligible men in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, gets down on his knees and kisses her hand again and again and _begs,_ begs shamelessly until Eddara confounded Stark laughs and sends for her brother and Brandon says _yes, _says he will convince their father, and everything is wonderful.

She finally allows him a kiss when Brandon goes off to share the news with Benjen and Lyanna and whoever else would care, and he is mildly embarrassed by how carried away he gets - he intends to give her the sort of kiss maiden's dream of, in his experience, gentle and soft and lingering just slightly, but he's wanted her so intensely almost since they met that it feels as though he's waited his whole life for this and so it is that he comes back to himself while pinning her against the wall, his hand hooked behind her knee and her leg hitched high around his hip.

She laughs and pushes him away quite firmly, but she does let him kiss her hand and help her up onto her horse, even though she has no need of such help, the following day when she is leaving. Nobody yet knows that Lyanna and Rhaegar are missing, and Dara is returning to the Vale with her foster father and Robert Baratheon.

She is returning as the betrothed of Asric Dayne, though, or as good as, and until it becomes apparent that the prince and Dara's sister are missing, Asric is sure that life has never been sweeter.

* * *

He is there when the King murders Brandon and Rickard Stark, frozen in horror and wishing more than anything that he was as brave as Arthur, that he could trust someone, anyone, to help him if he were to try and save Dara's brother and father.

He runs as soon as the king dismisses them, runs and empties his stomach against the faded red stone of the keep, because this is madness, all of it is madness, there is nothing at all left in the world that is right when Dara, shy, sweet, beautiful Dara, _Asric's_ Dara, and smiling Benjen are being called to the capital to be executed.

If she is brought before the king, Asric will fight for her, and gods damn them all but he _will _win. He will never see harm come to Dara if he can help it, and that thought frightens him more than it should.

* * *

Dorne fights for the crown when war is declared, as expected, but Asric almost turns craven at the thought of facing Dara on a battlefield when he hears that she is leading the rebel forces with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn and, eventually, Hoster Tully.

Oh, he can see her in battle easily enough, her strong arms wielding a blade as easily as they'd twisted through the dances with him...

But he cannot bear the thought of fighting her. He writes to her, at Winterfell and the Eyrie and Riverrun, praying that some, any letter reaches her, praying that she will step aside and let some of her bannermen lead her army.

He knows that she won't, of course - she is too proud and honourable for that. She reminds him of Arthur, in a funny sort of way, and that thought makes him ache with worry for Dara and for Arthur and for everyone else fighting in this damned war.

* * *

Lewyn finds him and smiles grimly, offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet.

"The Trident, lad," he says tiredly. "We ride for the Trident."

* * *

When next Asric sees Eddara Stark, she is fighting against him on a battlefield, her father's greatsword in her hands, and she is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.

He grew up listening to tales of Rhoynar warrior women, of Nymeria and her daughters, and so it is that he finds himself awe-struck and not at all perturbed by Dara's display as she cuts through royal troops in a wave of smoky armour and smoky blade.

It's more arousing than he would ever admit to anyone, even Oberyn or Arthur, but he does not have time to dwell on that. He does not have time to dwell on anything, really, not when he has a battle to survive, but her plait hangs down from under her helm, and he catches a flash of silver on its end as he takes some boy in Arryn livery through the throat.

* * *

She's an angel, he's sure of it, tearing off her helm and tossing aside her priceless sword and falling to her knees at his side in the shallow red water.

"Do not die," she orders him, pressing her hands into the wound in his side. "Swear to me, Asric Dayne, swear to me you will not die. I cannot let you die."

He swears, and she holds him to his vow. She keeps him awake all the while, telling him of her foster-father's marriage to the elder Tully girl, of Rhaegar lying dead in the water with rubies scattered around him, of her little brother, the new-made boy-lord of Winterfell and his fears about assuming their father's place. She talks of Winterfell, of the godswood and the wolfswood both, of hot springs and warm stone walls and glass gardens.

She tries to make him tell her of Dorne, and he rasps out things about the pear orchard and the Palestone Tower, where he and Arthur had their rooms. He tells her about Arthur being named Sword of the Morning, about playing with Oberyn in the Water Gardens, about running away from Doran so they could sneak about the Planky Town.

Dara holds his head in her lap, and he almost doesn't notice Robert Baratheon's shadow fall over them as the maester stitches him back together. He does hear them shouting at one another later, though, Baratheon demanding to know why Dara didn't just leave Asric to die, Dornish snake that he is, friend of that bastard rapist Rhaegar.

Asric knows - knew, he supposes - Rhaegar as well as anyone could, and he knows that Rhaegar was never a rapist. He says as much to Dara, too far gone on poppy's milk to care about risking Robert's fury, and Dara shakes her head and strokes his hair with broken fingers and shushes him gently.

* * *

He is not in the throne room when Tywin Lannister presents what is left of Elia and her children to the new king, but he is the one to comfort Dara as she rages at the horror of it all.

She is not made for war, his warrior woman, not made to see the terrible depths of evil that hide in some men's souls, and so Asric holds Dara close and ignores the way their new king and his Hand eye his suspiciously, as if they think he might harm Dara at any moment.

As if they think he might be capable of such a thing.

* * *

He is barely well enough to ride with her when she hears of her sister's whereabouts, but he goes. She waits for him at Storm's End, kisses him in front of Robert Baratheon's brothers and Tyrells and Hightowers and whoever else might be looking, and then she sends him to the maester and to bed.

They leave the following morning, and Asric is surprised to realise that he knows precisely where they are going - the tower belongs to his family. He and Arthur spent a full moon's turn here as boys, playing adventurers with Oberyn, and now to see it being used as... As a _prison,_ it fair turns his stomach.

Arthur is here though, Arthur and Oswell and Gerold, and Asric's relief at seeing his brother alive and well disappears in a sick twist when Arthur draws Dawn and stands against him. He and Arthur have always been close, as close as twins, and when Arthur and Dara spin together Asric lets his own sword fall to the ground with a clatter, staggers back away from the fighting because he cannot choose, he can't, he refuses to pick between his favourite brother and the woman he loves-

Arthur falls and Dara sprints into the tower, holds her dying sister as and Asric holds Arthur, begs his brother not to die, but it is too late.

Arthur entrusts Dawn to him, whispers to him the truth of it all, that Lyanna agreed to come away with Rhaegar, all but asked him to take her away from Robert Baratheon, that the babe whose cries echo with Lyanna's dying screams is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and he begs that Asric bring his bones home on his last breath.

Asric holds Arthur close and weeps, and when Dara emerges from the tower with Lyanna's body in her arms, her tears cutting through the grime and dust on her cheeks, he lays Arthur down and she lays Lyanna down and they hold each other until the shaking stops.

* * *

Allem and Allyria and Mother are waiting for them when they reach Starfall, Lyanna and Rhaegar's son in Dara's arms and Lyanna and Arthur's bodies on a cart behind them.

Allem looks at Dawn across Asric's back, looks at Arthur, looks at the babe - Jon, Lyanna called him, that's what Dara says - and looks at Dara.

He hugs Asric close before releasing him to Mother's embrace, and just as they have been since Father's death, Mother's arms are a haven the likes of which he's not sure exists elsewhere. For a single short moment, he can forget that Arthur is dead, because Mother still smells of peaches and saltwater and her hair is still silver-streaked black, as dark as his own, and gods but when did the world go wrong?

Mother holds Dara, too, and fusses over baby Jon and sends Allem into the town to find a wet nurse, and the sight of Allyria sitting on Dara's knee, looking at Jon, nestled in Dara's arms, nearly breaks Asric.

Lyria is so like Arthur, more even than Asric is himself, the same smile and long-fingered hands and silvery hair, even at just six years of age, and that nearly breaks him, too.

* * *

He marries Eddara Stark two weeks later, after she and Mother have had time to make something approximating a Stark cloak and he and Allem have managed to dig out the Dayne marriage cloak, the same one Father wrapped Mother in, and for the first time in his life, Asric does not sleep in the Palestone Tower while at Starfall.

He and Dara spend their wedding night in the top floor of the Orchard Tower, the most luxurious guest rooms Starfall has to offer, and Asric finds himself regretting that he has shared this with other women, that Dara is not his first as he is hers.

But then, when he knows how to please her, he is relieved that he knows what he is doing, because how unashamedly she enjoys herself is almost as intoxicating as the taste and the feel of her body under and over and around his own.

* * *

He wakes up before her and simply sits looking at her for a long while, the pale lavender sheets pulled up to her waist and her hair half-covering her breasts, her skin luminous in the thin sunlight peeking around the heavy violet drapes hanging over the west-facing arched windows.

His wife, he thinks in surprise, and with that he simply cannot not kiss her.

* * *

They form plans, plans of how they will hide who Jon is from Robert Baratheon.

They're attachment to one another has been the subject of gossip since Harrenhall, and so they agree - however much Mother protests - to claim Jon as their own. Allem is betrothed to Elaida Manwoody, after all, will have children of his own and will not need Asric as his heir forever, and so there is no chance of Jon ever inheriting Dayne lands and titles.

It remains a bone of contention between them, even as Mother hugs him tight before he and Dara and Jon and Lyanna's bones board the ship that will take them to White Harbour.

"My boy," Mother whispers, running her fingers through his hair. He has always been her favourite, the only one of them all with her hair instead of Dayne silver, the only one with the same sense of humour and the same love of music and dancing, and it aches deep inside him to forsake her for Winterfell. It was different, he thinks, leaving her to be at court, to be near Arthur - this is more permanent. He and Dara will go to Winterfell to help Benjen rule until he comes of age, and then, who knows what they will do?

* * *

They arrive at Winterfell in the middle of a snowstorm, and Dara leaps down from her horse's back as though it's a fine sunny day. Asric huddles around Jon, protecting the babe from the elements as best he can, and Benjen gabbles about the babe Catelyn Tully has borne Jon Arryn, a healthy boy called Robb, and Dara seems delighted for her foster-father.

Benjen declares his intent of taking the black that night after the feast, begging Dara to understand, begging her not to hate him for leaving her with the responsibilities that neither of them should have had, and Dara looks to Asric helplessly over Jon's head.

Asric shrugs, and the following morning he writes to Mother and Allem to tell them the thing they most feared to hear when he told them he was marrying a Stark of Winterfell.

* * *

Arthur is just more than a year younger than Jon, his namesake's hair and Asric's eyes and Brandon Stark's face, and Asric is never prouder than when Dara, sweaty faced and exhausted, lays their son in his arms.

Sansa is their sweet girl, as fair-haired as Arthur, almost identical to Lyria but much softer than her aunt, and followed closely by wild little Arya.

Asric loves Dara when she's with child, loves the way she smiles soft, silly smiles and strokes her belly when she thinks nobody is looking. He loves seeing her with their children, holding Arthur's hand around the hilt of his little wooden sword, braiding Sansa's glossy hair, chasing Arya through the godswood even when she is six moons gone with Bran.

* * *

Dawn hangs with Ice on the wall of their bedchamber, and blue winter roses grow around the window. Jon plays in the godswood with Arthur, their heir and their son, and they never forget that their marriage was born in the bloodiest times of their age, never forget the losses that led them to where they are now.

The only time in their whole marriage that both swords are brought down together is when the Greyjoys rebel, when Dara and Asric together lead the Northmen and come home with a child so twisted in on himself that they almost don't know what to do with him.

Asric worries about leaving Theon with Jon and Arthur and the girls, even though Arya's barely more than a babe, because when he does talk he tells horrible tales of his older brothers, but he remains mercifully disinterested in all of the children and Asric is careful to make sure it stays that way.

* * *

There will always be days when it sickens Asric to look on the two greatswords crossed on the wall above the hearth, always be times when Dara flinches to be called Lady Stark, but they are here and their children are here, and when Jon Arryn dies and Robert Baratheon comes north looking for Dara to come south, Asric is only relieved that they can refuse his demands for Sansa and Arya for his sons, because their sweet girl will be Lady of the Eyrie some day and their wildling will be a Princess of Dorne.

Dara became great friends with Catelyn Arryn over the years, and the two write constantly, sharing stories of young Robb's growth and adventures and Sansa's achievements. Asric writes as often to Oberyn, who is only too willing to tell of Trystane, the nephew who is most like his beloved sister. Asric sometimes wonders if Oberyn ever came to terms with Elia's death or if he wakes up at night screaming at the wrongness of it all.

He knows that he sometimes does, thinking of Arthur. Dara does the same, thinking of Brandon and her father and of Lyanna most of all. Those are the days she spends with Jon, he's noticed, and he's found himself doing the same, even now after all these years.

Asric almost laughs when Robert, determined to make a match between his House and Dara's, offers his daughter for Jon - if he knew the truth of Jon's parentage...

* * *

Then Bran falls, and there is no time to think. There is only Bran, his boy, the boy with Dara's eyes but who is Allem, Allem who is lost to them too now, Asric's little boy who is broken now, who will not wake up, and the world is wrong again, just as it was during the war.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I accidentally a thing. Oops.

Um, this won't be a proper series. It'll be fairly linear one-shots in this 'verse. Um.

Enjoy?

* * *

"I have a son, you have a daughter-"

"I have two daughters," Dara laughs, butting her hip against Robert's as they make their way back up from the crypts. "And both of them are betrothed, Robert."

"The little one is barely out of swaddling!"

"Don't let Arya hear you say that!" Dara warns him teasingly, smiling affectionately. "Sansa is promised to Jon and Cat's boy, Robb, and Arya is to marry Prince Trystane Martell-"

"A Dornishman?!"

Dara draws to a halt, taking her arm from Robert's so she can set her hands on her hips and glare at him properly.

"My husband is a Dornishman, Your Grace, if you remember," she says sharply. "My children are half-Dornish."

Robert waves that away angrily, planting himself firmly in the archway leading to the steps.

"You can't send the girl off to Dorne-"

"I can, and I will," Dara tells him flatly. "And you, Your Grace, do not have the right to order me what to do with _my_ children."

* * *

Asric is the only one who knows Dara's secret, and no matter how much she'd like to keep it that way, he is adamant that she must tell Robert.

"He cannot ask that you go south if you are with child!" he insists, kneeling before her with his chin resting on her knee. "Dara-"

"We cannot be sure that I _am _with child yet," she reminds him gently, laughing when he slips closer between her legs and nuzzles against her belly. "Asric, if I am not with child and I tell Robert that I am-"

"I'm sure we could guarantee it," he points out, voice muffled by her gown. "In fact, I would be willing to start the attempt right this minute-"

"Stop that," she scolds, waiting until he looks up at her and pouts. Sansa has that pout, all sulky mouth and brooding eyes, and it never fails to make Dara laugh. "We only came up here to prepare for dinner, after all."

"A feast for childkillers and oathbreakers-"

"Stop that," she says, more sharply than before. "Asric-"

Her enduring friendship with Robert remains one of the few true problems in their marriage - it's understandable, she knows, considering how close Asric was and is with the Martells, but Robert is as much a brother to her as Brandon was, as Benjen is, and she still rankles that he expects her to hold Robert in the same contempt as he does.

"I know," he sighs, heaving himself to his feet and kissing her hair. "I am sorry, my lady, but it is difficult."

She stands with him, waits until he meets her eyes, and then she kisses him. They cannot afford to stand apart, not now with Lannisters in Winterfell. Not with Robert sniffing around their girls.

* * *

Sansa, to Dara's eternal surprise, chose to wear grey for the feast. Admittedly, it's more the silver-white of the Dayne star and sword than the slate of the Stark direwolf, but it _is _grey, and it's such a rare thing to get her out of purple that Dara almost cries with relief.

Arya, too, surprised everyone by not objecting too fiercely when told she would have to wear a gown, and she looks very lovely in a grey as dark as Sansa's is light. She does not, however, look impressed to have to walk into the hall on Prince Tommen's arm. Sansa looks sceptical about walking with Prince Joffrey, too, and Jon is bemused by Princess Myrcella, who is watching him with the wide eyes of an adoring child coming to the realisation that boys are not disgusting.

Asric is commendably restrained, all things considered, neither speaking to nor looking at Cersei Lannister, and Dara is grateful to him for that - the very last thing they need is a fight with the Lannisters, especially now that she is so desperately trying to find an excuse not to go south as Robert's Hand, and Asric detests the Lannisters even more than she does herself.

Robert shames himself as expected, and Asric works to control the damage - Dara would do it herself, but Asric is so very protective that even the faintest chance of her being with child, having missed just one cycle, means he's unwilling to let her within ten yards of Robert while he is drunk.

"Your children are very lovely," she says to Cersei, just to fill the awkward silence that has descended over them while their husbands are away from the table. "They favour you very strongly."

So strongly that there is none of their father in them at all, and Dara wonders what it would be like to look at her children and see only herself _or _Asric in them (Jon is different, the very image of Brandon but without his outgoing nature, but then Jon has always been different and it hurts Dara's heart to think about it, so generally she doesn't).

"Your eldest boy and youngest girl favour you," Cersei offers. "The rest..."

Arthur, Sansa and Bran all have that silvery Dayne hair, and even though Bran has the dark Stark eyes and Arthur has the long Stark face, it's never said that they're anything but Daynes. Sansa, at least, is genuinely pure Dayne, so like Allyria, like the first Arthur, that it's unnerving sometimes, but it annoys Dara somewhat when people dismiss the Stark in Arthur and Bran's features.

"They have the Dayne colouring," she concedes with a rueful smile. "Their grandmother says Bran is very like Asric as a boy."

Cersei's smile is a cold, brittle thing, and Dara sighs inwardly. It is going to be a very long night indeed.

* * *

"I nearly had that wife of yours once," Robert tells Asric as he falls back into bed. Asric ignores him, pulling off the King's boots and tossing them aside. He's almost at the door when Robert continues. "Finest pair of teats I ever did see - she doesn't know I've seen 'em, of course. Saw 'em when she was bathing, we did, me and-"

Asric slams the door before he turns and strangles Robert bloody Baratheon with his own bootlaces. The idea of any man watching Dara, any man seeing so much as an inch more of her skin than she chose to show-

He strides away to Dara's rooms before he changes his mind and kills Robert Baratheon anyways. He hates that she's still so close to the king, to the man who _rewarded_ Tywin Lannister for ordering the murder of Elia and her children.

"He used spy on you in the bath," he fumes as soon as he shuts the door, tearing off his doublet and shirt and pacing up and down and up and down as she combs her hair. "The bastard used _spy_ on you in the _bath_, Dara!"

"I assumed as much," she says with a shrug, setting aside her brush and coming to stand before him, soothing him with her hands flat against his chest. "He is Robert, and although he often gives the impression of having forgotten that I am a woman, he has always been aware that I lack a cock."

"I-"

"He tried to kiss me once," she confides, stepping closer and leaning into him completely, huffing impatiently when he doesn't immediately lift his arms around her. "We were playing knights and maidens with some of the other boys. They were all very drunk - we were two-and-ten, I think. Robert rescued me and tried to kiss me."

"What did you do?"

"I broke his nose, Asric. He never laid a hand on me again."

* * *

Robert spends every moment convincing Dara to come south. Asric hates him for it, and Jon and Arthur do as well.

Sansa, on the other hand, seems elated at the prospect of seeing court. Asric blames Lyria's letters about life at Sunspear for that.

Of course, it doesn't help that Catelyn Arryn and her son, Robb, Sansa's betrothed, are at court. Asric saw the way Sansa looked at the boy when the Arryns visited Winterfell not long after she turned ten, and he worries about her being away without him there to protect her, especially if there is a boy she likes the look of.

There were plenty of girls who liked the look of him when he was young and at court, and while he doesn't doubt Robb Arryn has all manner of absurd northern notions of honour, Sansa is exceptionally beautiful - exquisite, really - and any boy would be tempted by such a treasure.

Arya he worries about less, because she knows how to use that pointy little sword Jon and Arthur gave her for her last nameday and isn't afraid to use it, either. She's damnably fast, too, and even though her face is near identical to Dara's Asric can see plenty of his brother in her, Arthur as he was before he became Sword of the Morning and obsessed with honour and propriety (except where Elia was concerned, of course).

But he takes their Arthur aside all the same, the evening after Dara finally gives in and agrees to become the Hand to the Usurper, and warns him to keep watch on both his sisters.

"I mislike the eldest prince," he confides. "He is very... Lannister."

Arthur is as bright as Jon is solemn, but his face is entirely serious as he nods and promises Asric that he will take care of Sansa and Arya.

* * *

"Stark women don't do well with royalty," he says to Dara that night, and even though the look she gives him promises pain if he continues, he feels as if he has no choice. "I'm serious, Dara, I don't like the idea of the girls at court anymore than I like the idea of you as the Usurper's Hand-"

"Asric, please," she pleads, settling across his hips and looking down into his face with desperate eyes. "Robert is my friend, but he is also our king. He is also Cersei Lannister's husband, for his sins - I _cannot_ say no."

"Don't bring the girls, then," he begs, sitting up and touching his brow to hers. "Dara, I am _begging_ of you. Do not bring the children with you."

"Even Arthur? Asric, he might squire for, for Barristan Selmy!"

"The King wants him to squire for the Kingslayer."

"I will never allow that," Dara says instantly, twisting her hands into his hair to hold him close as she has these fifteen years. "Never, you know that-"

"But how can you say no to a King?" Asric asks bitterly, arms tightening around her. "I will not see my son with one of those people, Dara. And the way the prince was looking at Sansa-"

"Jon's boy will be at court," she offers encouragingly. "Robb. He won't allow the prince to behave badly-"

"And what of Arya?" he breaks in, shutting his eyes tight. "She looks so like you. Like Lyanna. You said it yourself that Robert never overcame his infatuation with your sister-"

"Don't dare," she warns him sharply. "Don't dare suggest such a thing-"

"I will suggest anything if it means keeping our children safe. Anything at all, Eddara."

She jerks in surprise, pulling away from him and looking at him in something very close to horror until he opens his eyes.

"You haven't called me Eddara since before Bran was born," she says, sounding hurt.

"I only call you Eddara when you're being a stubborn fool," he snaps, bending his knees and surrounding her as completely as he can. He can't bear the thought of her being away from him, not when the last time they were apart was during the war, when he might have lost her so many times, and the thought of being apart from Arthur and the girls-

Asric loves Jon, will always love Jon, but Jon is not his son, not his blood, and it is not the same. It is easier for Dara because Jon _is_ her blood, but there are days when Asric wishes that they could tell everyone the truth of it, because it's unfair on Jon when Mother comes to visit and she can never quite smile at him.

She will always, always blame Jon's parents for Arthur's death. Asric tries not to think on it, but he will never quite be able to forget that Arthur died in a foolish attempt to honour Rhaegar Targaryen's last orders and keep Jon away from Robert Baratheon.

"And think how lonely Bran will be!" he adds, pressing his face into the curve of her neck. "Jon will be busy ruling Winterfell-"

"Enough," Dara says, fingers digging into his shoulderblade, twisting tighter into his hair. "Enough, Asric. The girls and Arthur are coming to King's Landing with me. It will do them good - Sansa will get to spend time with Robb before they marry, and Arya could do with some refining."

"At least let me write to Oberyn," he offers, breathing in the cedary smell of her shoulder. "Arya can come to King's Landing and Oberyn could come north and collect her-"

"Arya is only eight!" Dara exclaims, obviously appalled. "Asric, what has gotten into you? They will be with me at court, they will be _safe!"_

"King's Landing has never been safe for those with Dornish blood," he says softly into her hair. "Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon-"

"Asric-"

"My brother was Elia's lover, Dara," he whispers, Arthur's secret that he has held so long in his heart that he feels like he should beg forgiveness for revealing it even to Dara, even after Arthur and Elia have been so long dead. "Rhaenys was my niece. Who knows? Mayhaps Aegon was my nephew. Dornish blood does not do well in King's Landing, Dara. Dayne blood. Our children's blood."

She stills in his arms before pulling him up by the hair.

"Do not jape."

"I am not. I- It terrifies me to think of the children in King's Landing, Dara. It has terrified me to think of them being near Lannisters and Baratheons since word came that the Usurper and his whore were coming north."

"Asric! How dare-"

"I dare because I'm the one who lived in King's Landing, Dara. I'm the one who saw Targaryens-"

"There are no Targaryens left, Asric! None!"

He pulls away, lifting her out of his lap so he can climb out of bed.

"Of course not," he says, crossing the room and leaning on the ledge of the open window. "Of course not."

"Don't do this, Asric," she warns, and he can hear her padding across the floor towards him. "Do not. Please."

"I have sacrificed my relationship with my Mother, Dara," he says, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I stood back and let you and Howland Reed kill my brother. My best friend. Allem could hardly bear to speak to me for the last years of his life, and I'm near a stranger to my sister. All for your sake."

"I never asked you to-"

"All for Jon's sake, Eddara."

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," she says, voice abruptly icy.

"If you hating me is the cost of keeping our children safe, then so be it," he says at last. "I will sleep in my own chambers tonight, my lady."

* * *

Arya curls up in Asric's lap the next day, jaw clenched defiantly against the tears brimming in her eyes.

"Don't want to go to King's Landing," she fumes, clutching tight at his tunic as he rocks her gently. "Sansa wants to go-"

"I am trying to convince your mother to let you go to Sunspear," he murmurs just for her to hear. "I sent a raven to my friend, Prince Oberyn, this morning, and he will speak to his brother, Prince Doran, and while I am convincing your mother Oberyn will convince Doran, and Oberyn - or mayhaps one of his daughters - will collect you from King's Landing and bring you away. Would you like that?"

* * *

It is Arthur who carries Bran into the castle, and in that moment, when Bran is lying so limp in Arthur's arms, when he looks so helpless, so terrifyingly like Allem, like Father-

Asric sprints across the hall and takes his boy, his beautiful boy, from Arthur's arms and sends Theon running for Maester Luwin, sends Arthur running for Dara, orders Jon to keep Sansa and Arya away because there is something so wrong-

Dara does not scream, but she stands and stares at Bran on Luwin's bench with blank eyes, her hands loose and shaking at her sides, her face almost as pale as Bran's, but Asric can hardly think because he is too busy praying to gods he hasn't believed in since Arthur died on Dara's blade, praying that they will keep Bran alive.

* * *

The King will not delay his departure to allow Dara to see Bran wake up, and it takes Dara, Jon, Ser Rodrick and Jory all together to hold Asric back from hitting Robert square between the eyes.

Arya throws the most violent tantrum to ever echo off the walls of Winterfell, and for the first time in any of their memories, Dara raises her voice to one of the children - it surprises Arya so much that she sits in shocked silence on the floor outside Bran's bedroom until Jon comes and carries her, fast asleep, to her own.

* * *

"I don't want to go," Dara sobs into Asric's chest the night before they are due to leave. "I don't want to leave Bran, I _can't, _but Robert won't listen-"

"I know," he says, "I will be here to look after him. I will- I will-"

Neither sleep that night, and the next day Asric stands with Jon and watches Dara and Arthur and the girls ride away along the kingsroad.


	3. Chapter 3

_Bran doesn't fall._

Arya's words stayed with Asric long after he'd watched his wife and daughters and eldest son disappear off down the kingsroad with the Usurper and his pride of Lannisters. As he sat with Bran in the mornings and evenings and slept on the trestle bed in Bran's room at night, willing his boy to wake up, he thought on Arya's words.

_Bran doesn't fall._

Asric had never worried unduly about Bran's climbing – he remembered climbing the walls of Starfall with Arthur and Allem when he was small, after all, knew the thrill of looking down from dizzying heights too well to begrudge Bran the pleasure – because there had never been reason to worry. Bran had always been almost inhumanly sure-footed, climbing since barely he could walk, and while Asric had always warned Bran to be cautious, never once did he remember Bran taking a tumble.

_Bran doesn't fall._

He couldn't sit with Bran all day, had to help Jon with his duties during the day, but even while riding out to dispense justice with Dawn strapped across his back so Jon might stay and rule from Winterfell, might learn the bounds of his authority, Asric's mind lingered on Arya's words.

_Bran doesn't fall._

* * *

They were two weeks on the road when Arthur realised that Mother was with child again.

Arya was too little to remember Mother carrying Bran, and Sansa had ben barely more than a babe then either, but Arthur remembered and he recognised the signs now. He told his sisters and swore them to secrecy, at least until he figured out how he was to broach the subject with Mother.

She startled when he crept up on her as she threw up one morning, smiling apologetically while he held her hair in one hand and pulled a ribbon he'd borrowed from Sansa from his pocket to tie it back with the other.

"My clever boy," she said fondly, ruffling his pale hair and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "How did you know?"

"You've been very ill," he pointed out quietly, passing her the waterskin so she might rinse away the bad taste. "I remember how you were with Bran."

Mentioning Bran made her eyes darken, as it always did, but she smiled tightly and pulled him close rather than letting herself become sad – Arthur knew and understood that sadness, because every night he dreamed of Bran, of how small and broken Bran had looked lying on the ground when Dusk had tugged on Arthur's cloak until his master had followed him to where Bran and his nameless direwolf had been.

"Sansa thinks it will be a boy," he offered when Mother released him. "She says that the last wolf in the litter is a boy, the one Father is minding at Winterfell. What will you name him?"

* * *

Sansa and Arya seemed to bicker less when they were allowed to ride with Arthur, away from Septa Mordane, and so Dara was only too happy to allow them to do just that.

However, it did mean they were better able to interrupt her when she was riding with Robert.

"Mother," Sansa called, nudging her sweet-tempered mare up alongside Dara and the King, violet-blue eyes huge in her lovely face, "is the Eyrie like Starfall?"

Dara laughed, shaking her head, and Robert spoke before she could answer.

"The Eyrie is the highest keep in all the land!" he exclaimed, waving his hands and only barely keeping his balance. "You go up the mountain, up and up and up, and even after all that you're _still _not there! Even when it rains in the Vale, it's sunny in the Eyrie – you're above the clouds most of the time, able to see for miles and miles in any direction at all on a clear day. Wonderful place, and Jon's lad is a good boy."

Sansa flushed at the mention of her betrothed, but she kept close to Dara and merely smiled politely at the king.

"Starfall is very high up over the sea," she whispered, clearly unimpressed by Robert's theatrics. "Is the Eyrie really so much higher?"

"Much," Dara confirmed, amused by the flash of excitement that Sansa carefully controlled. "There is no way for a horse to reach the Eyrie – you ride mules most the way up the mountain, and then you must climb, or be carried up in the baskets with the produce. It is the _safest_ keep in the whole world – it would never have been taken, had Aegon Targaryen not had his dragons."

"Might I be able to visit it before Lord Arryn and I marry, Mother?" Sansa asked. "Arya says that Father has asked Prince Oberyn to come and bring her to Sunspear before she and Prince Trystane marry, and I should like to see the Eyrie before I marry."

Dara's mouth twisted at that. She was still unhappy with Asric over his schemes to keep the children away from Robert – as if he would hurt her children! – but she knew that she could trust Cat with Sansa. In fact, she rather thought Cat and Sansa would get along very well indeed.

"We shall see," she said, promising nothing but assuring Sansa enough to satisfy her. "Go back to Arthur and Arya, sweetling, and stay with them, please? You must not wander off, not when there are so many strangers about."

"Yes, Mother," Sansa promised, smiling and bowing her head to Robert before turning back to find her brother and sister.

"You're a soft touch," Robert teased, shaking his head.

"I think we spoil them all," she admitted. "Jon and Arya are so like Brandon and Lya, Arthur and Sansa are so like- well, the first Arthur and Allyria, and Bran is so like Allem. How could we not spoil them?"

"Say no, like a normal parent, or ignore them," Robert suggested. "Works well enough for me."

* * *

They were at Darry when Arthur fought with Joffrey for the first time.

Arya was restless, bored from being away from Jon and Bran for so long, and Arthur had been unable to keep from laughing when she showed him the delicate little sword Jon had given her the night before they left Winterfell.

"He said it's small because I'm small," she explained, tucking it back among her things before Septa Mordane or Sansa might see. "Will you fight with me, Art? _Please?"_

"I'd be afraid to fight such a fierce warrior as you," he teased, ducking when she tossed a shoe at his head. "But, I suppose I might control my fear for a few hours today if you promise to behave and not bother Mother tonight."

They shook on it, and made sure to tell Mother they were going for a walk in the woods before they left, Dusk and Nymeria bounding ahead of them.

"Your skirts will be an encumbrance," he warned her, snapping two likely looking twigs from the trees by the river, where they had made their camp for the afternoon. "You're too little to overpower anyone-"

"I'm strong!"

"You're _little_," he emphasised. "No matter how strong you might feel, any man will be stronger, Arya – you're a smaller build than Mother, and I daresay you're smaller than Sansa, too. Grandmother is little like you – I wish I could come to Sunspear with you. I would like to visit Grandmother and Ned at Starfall."

_"Art!"_

"I am sorry," he laughed, tossing her one of the twigs and taking up his stance. "Attack me as you wish in revenge, little sister."

Arya's furious energy burned off quickly enough, and before long she was sprawled on her back, skirts hiked up to her knees, and Nymeria lapping at her face to cool her down.

"You'll never make a soldier if you're tired already," Arthur teased, poking her with the toe of his boot until she kicked out at him. "Come on, warrior queen – give it another go, but this time try to actually think about where you're trying to hit rather than just hitting everything within reach, hmm?"

It was thus that Sansa and Joffrey found them, Sansa keeping her hand knotted in Lady's ruff and leaning away from the prince so subtly that Arthur would have been amazed had Joffrey noticed it.

"Good afternoon, sister!" he called, stepping back from one of Arya's swipes with a laugh. "And you, your highness – welcome to our practice yard!"

"Mother told me where to find you," Sansa explained, glancing sidelong at Joffrey and moving just slightly closer to Lady. "Prince Joffrey offered to accompany me."

"Our wolves are all the protection we need, but you have my thanks for worrying for my sister's safety, your highness," Arthur said warmly, catching the end of Arya's stick and jerking it out of her hands. "Enough, little sister, I am not Jon to indulge you endlessly."

Dusk nudged against his hip, shadow-grey and golden-eyed, darker than Nymeria by a shade and than Lady by several, and Arthur patted the wolf's shoulder affectionately.

"Wild beasts," Joffrey scoffed, folding his arms and surveying the three suddenly still direwolves. "Your parents are fools to let you keep them."

"The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark," Arya piped up. "They are part of us."

Joffrey scowled at her for a moment before his gaze landed on the sticks Arthur still held.

"You were teaching her to fight?" he asked incredulously. "She is a _girl."_

"We are of Winterfell and Starfall, your highness," Arthur said, mockingly sincere. "We do things differently north of the Neck and south of the Marches."

He motioned for Arya to join Sansa as Joffrey stalked closer, fingers drumming on the heavily ornamented hilt of his sword, and for once she did as she was told – she and Nymeria moved to stand with Sansa and Lady, and Arthur kept his hand on Dusk's shoulder and watched the prince warily.

"Savages," Joffrey sneered. "Northern and Dornish alike."

Arya moved as if to protest, but Sansa caught her wrist and shook her head sharply. Sometimes, Arthur was glad his eldest sister seemed almost able to read his mind.

"There are some who would say your family are more savage than ours," Arthur said quietly. "But that is a discussion for another day, I think."

"No, let us have it now," Joffrey said sharply, drawing his ridiculous sword. "Are you too craven, Lord Stark?"

"My name," Arthur said, still quiet but colder, "is Arthur _Dayne, _your highness."

"Oh, only your bastard brother is a Stark, is that it?" Joffrey mocked, jabbing with his sword as he circled Arthur.

"My older brother is a Stark because he is my mother's heir and heir to Winterfell," Arthur said, voice deceptively calm. "But my younger brother and my sisters and I, we are Daynes. Now, if you will excuse us-"

"I don't think I will," Joffrey said. "You slandered my House, Arthur _Stark. _Stand and fight me."

"I am unarmed, your highness," Arthur pointed out, dropping the sticks and holding out his empty hands. "Surely you will not fight an unarmed man with live steel?"

"Tell me precisely how my family are savages, Stark, and mayhaps I will let you go."

Arthur raised one eyebrow, every bitter tale his father had ever told out of Mother's hearing about the Rebellion rising to the tip of his tongue.

"Ask your grandfather about Elia Martell and her children, your highness," he said firmly, stepping away, towards his sisters.

"Dragonspawn," Joffrey said idly, quoting his father's most infamous moment, and Arthur's jaw clenched.

"Innocents slaughtered in the wrong," he said, and regretted it immediately because fury descended suddenly over Joffrey, fury descended and he hefted his sword-

Arthur only had time to throw up his arm and shout in alarm before the steel bit into his flesh, before Dusk leapt forward and Joffrey shrieked, before Arya darted forward and lifted the sword the prince dropped and threw it as far out into the river as she could, before Sansa dropped to her knees at his side and tore the hem off her dress and began to wrap it around his arm.

"Gods," he gasped, looking at the white flash of bone. "Gods."

"Arya, run and find help," Sansa ordered. "Dusk, down! Art, Art, look at me, Art-"

"Sansa," he said, feeling oddly giddy. "I can see the bone in my arm."

"What of _me?!" _Joffrey shrieked. "That beast _savaged _me!"

Sansa tied off the makeshift bandage on Arthur's arm and moved to look at Joffrey, clucking her tongue at Lady and Dusk when they began to growl.

"You will be fine," she said shortly, and Arthur was sure she'd never been more like Grandmother. "This will not even scar."

Arya burst back into the clearing then with Jory and some of the Lannister men who always seemed to be about, and Jory took one look at the situation – he seemed furious because of the blood on Sansa's skirts before he realised the source, and then merely angry – and helped Arthur to his feet.

"Jory," Arthur said, "I can see the bone in my arm."

* * *

"Dornish savages?" Dara fumed. "You dare accuse _my _children of being savages when _your _son near took Arthur's arm off? Do you not teach your sons about honour in King's Landing, Your Grace, or is it now honourable to attack an unarmed adversary?"

Robert was slumped in his chair, frowning firmly at the gathering at large as Dara and the Queen argued. Cersei and her brat were standing beside him, the prince's wrist wrapped in bandages.

Arthur hadn't been well enough to stand before the King – he'd bled and bled and bled, and the maester had had to cauterise the wound before stitching Arthur's arm closed. He would be wearing a sling for weeks to come, and even then he may not be able to use his hand properly for moons yet.

"Tell me what happened," Robert said tiredly. "You girls, you first."

Arya explained how she and Arthur had been playing when Sansa and Joffrey had appeared, how Joffrey had baited Arthur but Art – she kept calling him Art – had kept calm, had refused to rise to Joffrey's petty insults, how Art had been trying to leave when Joffrey had attacked him. Dusk, apparently, had nipped at Joffrey's wrist to throw him off so Art wouldn't be worse injured than he already was. Sansa agreed with everything, looking half as though she wished she could run from the room – she and Arthur had always been very close, as close as Dara had been to Brandon, Asric and his Arthur, as Jon and Arya – and half as though she wished she could gut Joffrey.

Joffrey's story, of course, was entirely different – Sansa had lured him to where Arya and Arthur were waiting, and then they'd set their wolves on him, he'd only drawn his sword in self-defence, and then _that girl _had thrown it into the river.

"I did throw his sword into the river," Arya admitted, "but only because I was afraid he would hurt Art again."

Dara gathered the girls close, ignoring Robert in favour of matching Cersei Lannister glare for glare, and wished desperately that Asric was with her. He had a way of mediating disputes that she had yet to master, and she missed him even more keenly for the comfort he would be able to offer Arya, who seemed to blame herself for Arthur's injury and who had always been closer to Asric than she was to Dara.

"Well?" she demanded. "You cannot possibly believe my children laid a _trap _for the prince, can you?"

Robert heaved a sigh and shook his head.

"Still, the wolf did attack him," he pointed out, waving away her and the girls' protests. "Muzzle it-"

"I want it killed!" Joffrey demanded shrilly, and Cersei wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"You would allow your son be savaged-"

"He'll be fine," Robert said, hefting himself to his feet. "Dara, see your girls back to their rooms and come to me. We'll discuss this in private."

"Your Grace-"

"Quiet, woman!" he snarled, rounding on Cersei. "It's done!"

Dara didn't miss the venomous glare Cersei levelled at her, and bit back a sigh. Even after all these years, did people _still _think she and Robert were more than friends?

* * *

Asric sat on the foot of Bran's bed, nursing his bleeding hand and staring blankly down at the man with the broken neck. Bran's wolf had torn his gut open, and Asric wasn't sure what had killed him, but the man who'd come to kill Bran was dead and that was all that mattered.

But who had sent him?

"Father- What in hells happened here?" Jon gasped, Ghost trotting calmly over to the bed to lick Bran's wolf's muzzle clean. "I came to find you, but- who is he?"

"I know not," Asric said dizzily, feeling sick. "Someone wanted to kill our Bran, though, and I will not forgive that." He looked down at his hand, feeling a faintness he hadn't known since Dara held him together on the banks of the Trident. He would need to eat something as soon as the bleeding was stopped. "Jon, could you send Maester Luwin to me, please? I would go to him, but I rather think I'm about to faint."

* * *

Dara made sure the children were settled and changed out of her filthy riding gown before deigning to venture to the council chambers. She was still furious with Robert for forcing her to muzzle the wolves, still furious that Joffrey hadn't been punished for what he had done to Art, still furious with Robert for making her come south before Bran woke up.

Renly swept her clean off her feet, running to meet her as soon as she walked through the doors and kissing her on either cheek.

"It is so good to see you, Dara," he said warmly, holding her hands and smiling brightly – he looked so like Robert had when they were younger that she missed her friend all the more keenly for a moment – before stepping back to introduce her to the rest of the small council. "Come, come – meet our co-conspirators."

She rolled her eyes – Renly had always been a touch theatrical, even as a small boy – and took her place at the table. Barristan Selmy and Maester Pycelle she knew, Varys the Spider she knew by reputation, and Petyr Baelish she knew of from Catelyn Arryn's letters.

"A pleasure to meet you all, my lords," she said tiredly. "As soon as the King arrives-"

Renly took the seat to her right and snorted in amusement.

"The King hasn't sat in on a council meeting in years," he told her. "Shall we tell you how things lie, my lady?

* * *

The Tower of the Hand echoed with laughter when Dara dragged herself back from the council meeting, and she smiled hopefully, knowing that only one person would have come to visit her children.

"Hello, Cat," she said, stepping into the other woman's embrace as soon as she walked through the door of her solar. "Oh, it _is _good to see you."

"And you," Cat assured her, with more sincere warmth that Renly's flamboyant greeting had carried. "You look well."

Dara laughed, patting her hair – she needed a bath, a long hot soak, and to comb her hair out properly – and shook her head.

"A well-intentioned lie, but a lie none the less," she said firmly, still smiling as she and Cat took the seats on either side of the empty hearth. "I am so sorry about Jon, Cat."

"As am I," Cat agreed, a gleam of tears in her bright blue eyes. "He was a good man. He asked for you, near the end, you and Robert, although his last words… were of Robb and Minisa."

Dara noticed Cat's slip but said nothing, filing it away to ask about when the children were not all present.

"I am being so rude today!" she exclaimed, still holding Cat's hand. "I have not seen either of your children in such a long while and here I am, forgetting to ask for introductions – do excuse my lapse, Cat."

Cat's eyes slid to Dara's belly and she grinned just slightly, winking conspiratorially in a way that made Dara's jaw drop – she was barely three moons gone, how on earth did Cat know?! – and then she stood, her children moving to stand with her.

Robb was all Tully save his hair, which was the same thick, dark brown mop as Jon's had been – Dara could still remember sitting in Jon's lap as a small girl and combing his hair for him, and marvelled at his patience – whereas Minisa had the Tully hair but was otherwise the very image of Jon's mother, from the portrait Jon kept in his solar of his parents. They were very lovely children, and clearly took their charisma and confidence from their mother, because Jon had been shy until the situation called for him to be fierce.

Dara knew that Robb would be a good husband to Sansa, and was relieved that the match had been made before Robert came to Winterfell.

"Arya tells us that she is for Dorne," Cat said, smoothing a hand over Minisa's hair when the children returned to the table. "Or so she has been told."

Dara frowned and beckoned for Cat to follow her out onto the balcony.

"Asric hates the children being so surrounded by Lannisters," she admitted softly. "He has already written to Oberyn – they are great friends, and Oberyn has agreed to send one of his daughters to collect Arya."

"One of his bastards?" Cat asked in surprise. "Are you… amenable to such an arrangement?"

Dara nudged her hip against Cat's.

"My eldest son is a bastard," she teased. "Asric and I were not married when Jon was born, remember."

Cat pulled a face, and Dara had to laugh.

"I am a little worried," she admitted. "Asric trusts the Martells with his life, with the children's lives, but Oberyn and his daughters have a… A worrisome reputation. But, Arya _is _promised to Prince Trystane, so…"

"Sansa would be welcome to return to the Eyrie with us when we go," Cat offered, taking Dara's hand in reassurance. "We will return soon, I dare say – Robb has been squiring with my uncle, and is eager to return to Brynden. Has there been any talk of who Arthur might be squired with?"

"Robert made some mention of the Kingslayer, but both Asric and I refused," Dara confided. "He has a long recovery ahead of him, anyways – mayhaps when his arm is better, we will discuss it again. He is not yet three-and-ten, after all. He has time."

"They all have time," Cat agreed, linking her arm through Dara's as they looked out over the walls across the sea. "They all do."

* * *

Asric could see how clearly Jon resented the way so many of the men turned to him before to their rightful Lord Apparent, but he couldn't blame them – Jon was only a boy, only four-and-ten, whereas Asric had ruled near enough as Dara's equal, as Dornish as ever despite all his years in the North. He had not been Lord of Winterfell, not even in name – he was no Stark, after all, not even in name, no more than Arthur or Bran or the girls were – but when Dara had been away or ill, he had kept her rule and acted in her stead.

Jon's resentment, though, was understandable, he supposed. Asric, after all, remembered how Rhaegar had chafed at Aerys' authority, at the authority of the various King's Hands between Tywin Lannister and the war.

Dara would hate him for making the comparison, but it was impossibly difficult not to see Rhaegar in Jon – oh, there was plenty of Stark in him too, in his look and his quiet manner and gods, there was _so much _of Dara in his unyielding sense of right and wrong…

But there was Rhaegar there, too, in his tendency towards melancholy, his determination to be something _more _than just Lord of Winterfell when his day came.

Dara would never forgive him it, but there were moments when Asric looked at Jon and could not see past Kingsguard white and Dayne silver stained blood red in the sharp Dornish sunlight, Dawn lying pale and cold on the ground with Ice hot and dark at its side, Arthur's voice rasping a litany of secrets on his last breath.

There was enough of Rhaegar in Jon for Asric to understand the boy who called him Father's resentment. Had circumstances been different, had Rhaegar behaved as the man Asric knew he had been capable of being rather than the fool he had been, Jon would have been a prince of the Iron Throne, and while Jon did not, could never, know that, some ancestral memory must make it burn (there are times when there are flashes of Fire and Blood in Jon, flashes Dara would deny but Asric sees when Theon makes some crass comment about Sansa or some visiting lord slanders Dara) to be beholden to a man who truly has no right to the authority that is Jon's.

The authority, Asric could not help but sometimes think, that should have been Art's.

Asric watched Jon spar with Theon in the yard some two weeks after the incident with the assassin in Bran's room, toying with the tied-off end of the bandages around his hand, and talked quietly with Maester Luwin.

"I have written to Prince Oberyn," he murmured, watching the twist and slash Jon used to win this bout, recognising it as something Arthur had taught him, something he had taught Dara, and sighed. "He has promised me that his daughter will make the necessary enquiries while she is at King's Landing to collect Arya."

"You trust Princess…?"

"Not Princess, maester," Asric said, shaking his head with a laugh. "Lady Tyene at best. Oberyn's daughters are bastards to a one, as well you know – but yes, I trust them. I would trust anyone of Martell blood with my children's lives, and I cannot give a higher recommendation than that."

"But Lady Tyene," Maester Luwin persisted. "She may have difficulty in asking questions of the right people-"

Asric had to laugh at that, truly laugh, because the idea of Oberyn's daughters having difficulty in doing anything was just too amusing, even given the seriousness of the circumstances.

"You have not met Oberyn's girls, maester, so I will forgive your apprehension," he chuckled, "but believe me when I say that there are none in all of Westeros who might better find the secret of who tried to kill my Bran than one of the Sand Snakes, save perhaps the Viper himself."

Or the Spider, who Asric remembers watching Jon with speculative eyes when they visited court on their way home from Starfall at the war's end. The Spider, who knew everyone's secrets.

Asric watched Jon spar with Theon in the yard, prayed that Tyene and her septa's face would find the truth of who had tried to kill Bran, and hoped against hope that the Spider and his little birds had not seen the Targaryen in Jon.

* * *

"The Queen has taken an interest in your Sansa," Cat murmured over tiny cups of sweet mint tea one evening. "You do not see it because Robert keeps you more than occupied, but Cersei has been watchful of Sansa."

Dara frowned, shaking her head.

"After the incident with the boys on the road, I would have thought Cersei would have gone out of her way to avoid my children."

"Minie is staying with Sansa," Cat assured her, patting her hand comfortingly. "And I am staying near the Lannister woman, where I can better keep an eye on her."

Dara always liked Cat, ever since she and Brandon had been betrothed, when they were all barely more than children playing at being adults, and her friend was her sole comfort here at court – Arya's temper was shorter by the day, and Art seemed to find fault with everything (although that may have been because of Prince Joffrey's constant presence, and his habit of calling Art "Stark." Of all her children, Art was always the proudest of his Dornish heritage, the proudest of being a Dayne of Starfall, nephew to the last Sword of the Morning and son to the current one), and Sansa…

"Robb and Minisa have been a great help," Dara admitted, thinking back to walking into one of the many tiny gardens tucked about the keep only to find Robb standing between Sansa and Joffrey, looking so like Jon Arryn despite his Tully face that her breath had caught. It had taken some coaxing and a touch of bribery, but when eventually Sansa had shared her tale of the prince cornering her in a moment alone, without even Lady to mind her, Dara had decided that there was not a finer young man than Robb Arryn in all of Westeros (except Jon and Art, of course).

"Minie is very fond of Sansa," Cat agreed with a smile. "As, I dare say, is Robb."

Dara laughed at that, shaking her head. Robb had taken to watching Sansa with wide eyes and a slack jaw, and Sansa had taken to blushing and shying away from his warm looks – Dara remembered how she had felt at Harrenhall, how she had felt when Asric had turned all of his considerable charm and charisma to wearing her down, to making her his (and gods, no matter how anyone else might view their marriage, so odd outside Dorne because _she _was the one who held the power, not him, she was _entirely_ his, right down to her bones) and she could not help but feel some small sympathy for Sansa. She had been older at Harrenhall, had been used to men looking at her that way because she was Brandon's favourite sister, but Sansa was unused to being looked on with anything but fondness and familial love.

"She is fond of him, too," Dara laughed. "She is just unsure of how to react to him. She thinks he and our Jon will be great friends."

Cat set down her cup, the smallest of frowns creasing her brow.

"You ignore gossip, so you will not know this, but there have been rumours of a match for your Jon," Cat confided. Dara frowned in askance, and Cat sighed. "The King seems to think it past time House Stark and House Baratheon were joined. If my sources are correct, and I rather think they are, he has been thinking on marrying Myrcella to your son."

"But she is just a child!" Dara exclaimed. "She- she is younger than Arya!"

"And Arya is betrothed," Cat pointed out gently. "You looked after your girls well, Dara, but you forgot your boys – if you refuse Jon, Robert may well ask for Arthur."

"No," she said, absolutely certain on this point. "He hates Asric, and he would never want his daughter married to a Dayne."

Cat looked surprised. "He surely does not _hate _Asric-"

"Oh, he does," Dara disagreed, remembering Robert ordering her to let Asric die on the Trident, remembering how Robert had never truly forgiven her for marrying one of Rhaegar Targaryen's closest friends. "He despises him as much as he despises the rest of Dorne, Cat. Robert will never ask for Arthur for Myrcella."

"Write to Asric now, then," Cat suggested. "Find a match for Jon before Robert does."

Dara sighed and nodded, wondering how she'd ever thought dealing with Robert's small council would be her greatest trial in King's Landing.


	4. Chapter 4

Tyene Sand, from the moment Dara set eyes on her first, was everything she would have expected of Oberyn Martell's daughter and yet nothing at all like what she would have expected.

It was the eyes that threw her, she knew, those enormous, innocent eyes – eyes that were dark with concern when Tyene handed Dara a letter bearing Asric's seal, when she shared a tale of dark deeds and darker worries.

"Someone tried to kill our Bran," Dara said, thudding down into her chair, numb with sudden fear. Were the rest of the children in danger? Had Asric's fears been right? Had she doomed her family by bringing them to King's Landing? She had thought Art's injury at Joffrey's hands just a fight blown out of proportion, but…

"Lord Dayne's worries prompted my father to make a special offer," Tyene said softly, handing Dara another letter, this one sealed with sun-and-spear. "He has not taken a squire before, but he wondered if, seeing as your second son came south to train for his knighthood and has not yet been claimed, mayhaps yourself and Lord Dayne would consider him as a suitable candidate?"

Arya and Art both safe in Sunspear was more than Dara could possibly have hoped – while she was completely at a loss as to how to even so much as react to Oberyn most of the time, she knew that Asric's trust was hard-earned, and that he trusted his oldest friend so entirely reassured her that Arya and Art _would _be safe in the care of House Martell.

And then, if Dara took up Cat's offer to bring Sansa to the Eyrie when they left… There would only be the babe to worry for, and she could well manage to mind a babe not even born yet, surely?

"They will be safe with us, Lady Stark," Tyene promised her. "House Dayne have always been a friend to House Martell, and their aunt is at Sunspear besides. Lady Allyria would be glad to see them, I think."

Aye, Allyria would – she rarely visited, and wrote sparingly to Asric, but she wrote as often as she could to the children and sent them gifts enough to leave them spoiled despite the distance. Asric's relationship with his family had been strained for years, but the Daynes of Starfall never treated the Daynes of Winterfell with anything but adoration.

"I would be glad to accept your father's most gracious offer," Dara heard herself saying, heart already aching at the thought of losing all of her children in one swoop. Bran and Jon still at Winterfell, Arya and Art in Sunspear, Sansa in the Eyrie… She would only have the babe, when he came, and hopefully she could convince Robert to send her home as soon as the child was strong enough. "I cannot thank your House enough for this, Lady Tyene."

Tyene smiled her septa's smile and bowed her head demurely, and Dara was abruptly grateful for Asric's friends, who were disapproved of as thoroughly north of the Marches as she herself was disapproved of south of the Neck.

"Might I meet Lady Arya, Lady Stark?" she asked. "Lord Arthur I am sure will not be a problem, but Lord Dayne did warn that Lady Arya could be… A handful, I believe was the word he used."

Dara snorted derisively.

"He has misled you, Lady Tyene," she said, rising to her feet, still clutching Asric's letter tight in her hand, still feeling sick at the thought of anyone trying to kill her sweet Bran. "Arya is more a sackful than a handful, and more besides, but I daresay she will behave if she has one of her brothers to keep her occupied."

* * *

Asric flexed his new-healed fingers around the hilt of his practice sword – Dawn hung alone and lonely above the hearth in his and Dara's sitting room – and settled low on the balls of his feet, reminding himself to apologise later to any man who dared stand against him today.

Tyene's enquiries had led her in circles, first pointing towards the Imp, of all people – Asric had been ready to believe anything of a Lannister – but then away.

Away and around in circles that seemed to point blame at any number of people, so many of them Lannisters or tied to Lannisters that even Asric and Oberyn had to set aside their hatred and admit that it looked as if it were a set up.

Tyene had waited until she returned to Sunspear with Arya and Art in tow to write to him, concealing her news within Oberyn's much brighter letter, a letter full of amusement at how very wilful Arya was proving to be – how much she apparently reminded Oberyn of Asric himself, during their days at the Water Gardens – and how uncannily like Arthur Art was.

Asric knew how like his brother his son was. It was because of that that he never found the intensity of Jon and Art's bond odd at all, despite others saying they'd never seen brothers as close. Rhaegar and Arthur, after all, had been just as close.

When Asric had trounced every man who was fool enough to stand against him, when he stood in the middle of the practice yard with his head bowed and sweat dripping from the end of his nose as he leaned heavily on his sword, Jon laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Father," he said gently, "mayhaps that's enough for today."

He could remember Rhaegar saying almost precisely those same words to Aerys, and the thought made him ashamed of how he had behaved since Dara's letter had come, asking him to begin finding a wife for Jon.

"Aye," he said tiredly, tossing his sword to Ser Rodrick and wrapping an arm around Jon's shoulders (_He is my son in all the ways that matter, _he reminded himself in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dara's, _Rhaegar may have been his sire, but I am his father, and that is what counts, _yes, that was definitely Dara's voice_). _"Let us see what these letters we have from Lady Mormont and Lords Manderly and Karstark have to say, eh?"

* * *

Sansa looked up, caught Robb Arryn's sky blue eye, blushed, and looked back down.

Minie, sitting at her side, giggled.

"He's just as shy of you as you are of him," she whispered, holding up her embroidery and smiling. When Sansa saw the pattern of falcons and direwolves she squeaked and tore it out of Minie's hands, but the damage was done – Robb had seen it too, if the furious blush in his cheeks was anything to go on, and Sansa was sure she had never been so embarrassed.

Since Art and Arya had left for Sunspear, Sansa had spent more and more of her time with Robb and Minie, at first because Robb was her betrothed and she simply liked Minie, but then because spending time with Robb and Minie meant Prince Joffrey stayed away from her.

Art and Jon both had taken a dislike to the prince at Winterfell, and Sansa knew to trust her brothers when they were in agreement – however close they were, Jon and Art rarely agreed on anything of consequence, so when they _did _Sansa always took their word. Then, with the incident near Darry, when he had hurt Art and tried to have Dusk killed…

Prince Joffrey had made an enemy of Robb too, it seemed, although she did not know how, so Sansa knew that she was safe with Robb and Minie. It was nice to have a friend her own age who was not obsessed with finding a husband, as Jeyne Poole often seemed to be. Minie often japed that she would join the Silent Sisters to save Lady Cat the trouble of finding her a husband, and Lady Cat only ever laughed and stroked Minie's beautiful hair.

Minie was less enthused by her hair than Sansa was, of course, lamenting that Robb had their mother's fine features whereas she was, in her own words, "homely at best and plain at worst." Sansa didn't think Minie was plain at all (Jeyne often called Arya plain, and Minie was much, much prettier than Arya, and Arya was not _plain – _she looked like Mother, who was _anything _but plain) but her friend refused to listen to reason.

"Look at my dear brother if you wish to see a pretty face, Sansa," she teased, and then she giggled when Sansa and Robb both blushed.

* * *

"You've been keeping a secret from me, I hear," Robert whispered – loud enough for everyone within a half mile to hear, of course – tucking Dara's hand through his elbow and grinning conspiratorially as he leaned closer. "Why wasn't I told?"

"Because I wasn't sure until after we left Winterfell, and the road is dangerous enough for a breeding woman without her fool friend of a king telling the whole of the realm about her condition," she snapped teasingly, nudging her head against his massive shoulder. "Do shush about it, Robert – I'm trying my best to keep it quiet-"

"That won't work much longer," he pointed out, patting the small swell of her belly gently. She had always found it more endearing that mayhaps she should have that, rough and wild as he was, he was always so very careful with her (except on the practice yard, of course). It wasn't the sort of affected gentleness that he'd shown the few times he and Lya had been in company together, either, but a genuine affection that had always made it hard for her not to love him as much as she'd loved Brandon and Lya, as much as she loved Benjen. "That husband of yours knows, I assume?"

"Aye, Robert, Asric knows," she said, rolling her eyes. It was difficult not to snap at Robert in earnest when he spoke so poorly of Asric, but she did her best. It worked, usually, because she was level-headed regardless of what Asric teased. "As do the children – Arthur worked it out before anyone."

"Clever lad, that one," Robert said, patting her hand. "Shame about the mess with Joffrey. Don't know how that might have happened-"

"Don't start," Dara said sharply. "Do not _dare, _Robert. You know well how that happened, don't deny it. Your wife is not here to scowl at you for siding with me."

Robert laughed at that, slapping his great fat belly and kissing her hair as he had since they were children. Dara sighed inwardly, knowing he would divert the conversation to something else – that damnable tourney he was staging in her honour, mayhaps, or how much better off Sansa would be with Joffrey than Cat and Jon's Robb – and was surprised when instead he chose to talk about Myrcella.

Or rather, how fine a lady of Winterfell Myrcella would make.

"Asric wrote that there are some visitors coming to Winterfell," she said before Robert could order her to let him make a match between her son and his daughter. "It would be better that he marry a Northern girl, especially with Sansa and Arya both marrying in the south. Asric agrees-"

"But a Princess, Dara!" Robert boomed, throwing his arms up into the air. "A _princess!"_

"Arya is marrying a prince," she said firmly, "and that is quite enough for us. Jon wouldn't know what to do with a princess, anyways."

_In another life he might have been a prince, and if you knew that you'd be calling for his head, not trying to marry your daughter to him, _she thought darkly, rolling her eyes at Robert's theatrics and letting him guide her through the keep. _So you must never, ever know, and Jon must marry a Northern girl in case the Targaryen features come through, so he never has any reason to come south._


End file.
